Just Rewards
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: In the wake of Kate's death, Neal is sent back to prison, for longer than just a few months. Peter tries to find a way to free him, while his relationship with his wife is strained by his efforts, and their lack of success. By the time he does succeed, Neal has all but given up hope - and hope is not even close to all that he's lost.
1. Chapter 1

_I'm getting out today…_

As he was led down the long, grey hallway by two armed guards, Neal Caffrey tried to focus on that one, reassuring thought, and ignore the lewd, jeering voices of his fellow inmates as they passed. The promise of that thought played through his mind, like a favorite song on repeat, heard so many times that he'd ceased to think about the words. They'd become empty, meaningless – surreal.

Because as many times as he told himself, as much as he tried to cling to those words – after so long, he couldn't quite make himself believe it.

_But it's true. Peter told me, last week. He finally did it. I'm getting out of here. I'm getting out today…_

Neal's gait was slow and shuffling, impeded by the irons that bound his ankles, as much as by the ever-present ache in his body. He tried not to think about either, just to obediently walk along as he was led, just to get through these next few moments…

… _because once I do, this will all be over. The pain will fade, the chains will be gone, and I'll be able to move on and forget I was ever in this place…_

A bitter laugh bubbled up in his chest, almost escaping his lips at that thought.

_Yeah. That last part's a bit of a reach._

He suppressed the dark amusement he felt at that thought, unwilling to draw the attention of his captors, especially not in any way that might lead them to believe he was laughing at them – not now, not so close to freedom, with so much riding on these last few moments. Of all the cons he'd pulled, this one was perhaps the most important.

_Just give them what they want… give him what he wants… just one last time, for a little while… and then he'll never be able to touch you again. You'll be free, and home, and with Peter, and… everything's going to be okay…_

Those weak reassurances fled his mind in an instant as one of the guards used his key to unlock the main entrance into the area where the prisoners were housed, and the drab gray and dimly lit halls of unyielding concrete gave way to bright fluorescent lights and plain, practical carpet underfoot. His heart began to race, and he felt a cold, damp chill trickle down his spine as they drew to a stop outside a solid, wooden door at the end of the hall, and the guard leading him knocked quietly, politely on the door.

_You're about to go home… can't do anything to you… can't, because you're supposed to go home today…_

_He can't do anything to you today…_

"Come in."

That familiar voice, quiet and calm, made Neal's heart stutter in his chest, and he closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard, though his mouth felt like sandpaper. He only realized that he'd stopped still, unmoving, when the guard ahead of him tugged rather ungently on the end of the chain about his waist, jerking him a couple of steps forward, across the threshold and into the familiar room.

_You'll never have to see it again,_ he reminded himself with an almost fierce desperation. _Just get through the next few minutes… just do whatever you have to do to get past this point… and you'll never have to walk through this door again… never have to see _him…

The man behind the desk was a good fifteen years older than Neal, at least – maybe more – with dark hair that was beginning to gray at the temples, over a face that was sharp and angular, more striking than handsome. His dark, piercing eyes rose from the paper on which he was writing to take in his visitors, and he nodded slightly.

"Have a seat, Caffrey."

Neal hesitated, eyes darted toward the chair a couple of feet away, across the desk from where the man sat. In all the many times he'd been here, he'd never been invited to sit down. He wasn't sure why he was being invited – or _ordered_ – to now, and that uncertainty made him hesitate. The soft scratch of the man's pen against the paper on his desk gave way to silence, and Neal didn't dare look up, not wanting to see the expression on the man's face – the expression that no doubt matched the soft, vaguely warning question in his voice.

"Caffrey?"

Neal kept his eyes down, face flushing slightly as he shuffled forward, ahead of the two guards who'd brought him here. He'd never been more acutely aware of the distinctive orange he wore, or the bonds that held his ankles together with barely a foot of space between them and his wrists close together and at his waist – or the status denoted by all of those things.

Cautiously, stiffly, he sank down into the chair, focusing his gaze on the pen in the man's hand, poised but unmoving over the papers he'd been working on. As he did so, the pen began to move again, and the man's voice returned to its previous calm, almost bored tone as he addressed the guards.

"Dismissed. I'll call you when we've finished our discussion."

The guards left without a word, quietly closing the door behind them. The man behind the desk didn't speak, just finished writing whatever he was writing – casually, in no hurry – before laying aside the pen with deliberate care, and then rising from his seat to go to the door. Neal heard the quiet click of the lock as it fell into place, and tried not to flinch at the slow, measured footsteps that brought the man back to the place where he sat. A strong, firm hand fell on his shoulder, thumb stroking slowly over his shoulder blade with an unsettling familiarity.

"Just a couple of hours left now," the man observed softly. "And you'll be a free man again." The smirk was audible in his voice as he shrugged and amended, "More or less. Isn't that right?"

Neal hesitated, his nerves too on edge, his thoughts too frayed to focus enough to figure out what the game was this time, what would be the correct answer in this scenario. He settled on the simplest, safest answer, the one most often required of him in this room, with this man, spoken in a quiet, deferent tone.

"Yes, sir."

"I wanted to speak with you before you left, Neal," the man explained, something resembling gentleness in his voice. "I wanted to make sure that you understand… just how important discretion is, for anyone in your situation."

Neal wasn't sure anyone else had ever _been _in his particular situation – but the reason for this meeting, and what was expected of him, was beginning to become clear. He nodded, resisting the urge to shrug off the man's hand, fighting back the frustrated anger that rose up within him, and forcing himself to answer again, quiet and subdued.

"Yes, sir. I-I understand."

"There are things that go on here – means of survival, really – that people outside these walls wouldn't be likely to understand." The man laughed softly, his hand tightening on Neal's shoulder as he crouched behind him slightly, adding in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, "Wouldn't be likely to even _believe_, I dare say. Wouldn't you?"

_Someone _would _believe me…_ Peter _would believe me…_

_Wouldn't he? _

_His world's not so black and white that he couldn't at least_ consider _that I was telling him the truth… if I told him… _

… _not that I ever would…_

"Yes, sir."

Neal repeated the same words again, numbly, his voice barely over a whisper. His stomach lurched uneasily as the man's other hand came to rest high on his other shoulder, at the base of his throat, thumb sliding along the side of his neck with the ease of far too much familiarity. An edge of panic began to creep up his spine, his stomach churning with the sudden, relentless fear that he wouldn't be going home today, after all.

_Who are you kidding? _his inner voice taunted him for his naivety and pointless hope. _You were never going anywhere. Don't you get that yet? Did you really think he'd just let you walk away? He's _never _going to let you go…_

"So… it's just best for all concerned," the man continued softly, "if we just don't speak of such things after today. Isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Neal whispered, nodding. His breath caught over the words as he added in a voice of quiet desperation, "I-I won't say anything."

"It'd be a shame if anything happened to change your plans today, Neal," the man continued as if he hadn't spoken, finally moving his hands from Neal's shoulders, only to move around to stand very close in front of him instead. "After you've been waiting so long. It'd be a shame if you decided to take a swing at me, or something stupid like that – and ended up having to wait a few months longer."

Neal shook his head rapidly, struggling to maintain the fragile control he was barely hanging on to over his emotions, closing his eyes in a vain attempt to shut out the man's barely veiled threats. His heart was sinking, his hopes slipping away, with the realization that this man could definitely make good on his words. All he had to do was file a report stating what he'd just said – that Neal had been stupid enough to strike out at him, to attempt something as reckless as to physically attack the prison warden, on the very day he was supposed to be released – and his sentence would be extended, and there'd be nothing Peter could do to help him, no matter how badly he wanted to.

_And if you screw it up again… if you keep making his life more and more difficult… how long is it going to be before he gets tired of trying?_

"No," he said softly, his eyes focused somewhere around the man's waist, still unable to bring himself to meet his eyes. "No, I – I swear I won't say anything. Don't – don't do that." He swallowed hard, his next word a shamed, desperate whisper. "_Please_."

Abruptly the warden crouched down in front of him, bringing himself to eye level with Neal, and Neal automatically turned his face away, unwilling to meet his eyes. A strong, firm hand caught his chin, turning his head back and tilting his face upward in a silent command that Neal couldn't bring himself to disobey. He finally met the warden's cool, steely gaze, his heart racing at the malicious smile that twisted the man's lips as he leaned in close, his words hushed and vicious.

"If you say anything to anyone, Caffrey, it won't help you. No one would ever believe such a wild story. Nothing will come of it – nothing will happen to me – but I'll have _you_ locked away for the rest of your life. Don't think I can't do it. I have connections outside these walls that can make just about _anything_ happen – and don't think they can't set you up to look guilty of any number of illegal activities. What was it Agent Burke told you when your arrangement first came into existence? One more slip up, one violation of your work release agreement – and you'd be back in for good. Is that what you want, Neal? To be back here and at my mercy for _years_ to come?"

Neal shook his head as best he could within the warden's harsh grasp, his hands twitching slightly in their bonds, and he was momentarily grateful that the chains kept him from the temptation he felt to shove the man away.

_Keep it together, Caffrey… it's just another con… just have to convince him he's won, convince him you're beaten, just long enough to get out of here…_

He closed his eyes, his entire body shaking as the man finally released his grip on his face and instead ran a hand slowly, suggestively down his side.

The sick tremor in the pit of his stomach, the mind-numbing fear that stole over him with every gently invasive touch, made Neal suddenly wonder just who exactly he was conning – the warden into believing Neal was beaten – or himself, into believing that he _wasn't_.

"I won't," Neal insisted in a hoarse, pleading whisper. "I won't say anything. I won't tell anyone. Just – please don't…"

"Shhh," the warden soothed him, though the touch of his hands – one on Neal's knee and moving upward, the other sliding up under the hem of Neal's shirt – was anything but soothing. "It's all right. I'm not going to ruin this for you, Neal. Remember – the only one that can take your freedom from you now… is _you_." He laughed softly, a dark, cruel sound, before adding with a smirk, "And I'll be right here waiting for the next time you screw it up."

He withdrew slowly with visible reluctance, rising to his feet and finally, to Neal's immense relief, taking his hands off of him. But then, his hand fisted harshly in Neal's hair, and he jerked him forward on the seat.

"For now, though, Caffrey," he said with quiet satisfaction, "what do you say? One more for the road?"

Neal's heart sank as he watched the warden's hands move to his belt, swiftly unfastening it – and he knew there was only one thing he could do.

_It'll be over fast… Just… do what you have to do…_

He rose from the chair in which he was seated – just enough to drop awkwardly to his knees before his captor.

_Just one last time…_ he reminded himself, his chest burning with shame. _Just this one last time… and then you'll be free…_


	2. Chapter 2

Peter hummed a little to himself as he waited, leaning against the passenger side of his car. His mood was brighter than it had been in as long as he could remember. It'd been a struggle to maintain a sense of optimism over the past few months, as his attempts to negotiate Neal's release back into his old arrangement proved frustratingly futile, again and again – but he'd tried, for the sake of his wife and the rest of the white collar division who had to deal with him every day.

He hadn't always been successful – but he'd _tried_.

Today, he didn't have to try. Finally, his struggle of the past eight months had come to fruition. It didn't make sense to him, why it had taken so long to straighten out the mess that had been left in the wake of Kate's death – but it didn't really matter anymore. It was done.

Neal was coming home.

The jitters Peter was feeling were merely the result of months of false starts and raised hopes that had only met with disappointment. He knew that wouldn't happen this time. All of the proper legal documentation was in order, copies in the briefcase in the back seat of the Taurus, just in case – but he still couldn't help feeling the same nervous apprehension that had been at the very least in the back of his mind, every waking moment for the past eight months.

It was all over now, and Neal would be back where he belonged, with Peter and the rest of the white collar unit – but still, Peter knew he'd feel a lot better once Neal was safely in the front seat of his car, and the two of them were driving away and leaving this place behind – hopefully for good this time.

_Not "hopefully"_, Peter reminded himself, shaking his head. _Neal didn't do anything wrong – not this time. Yeah, maybe he came close, but – this wasn't his fault. He's made his choice, and it's the right one. _

_That's why I had to get him out of here – no matter what it took._

Peter glanced up again toward the gates, impatient – and then smiled with relief. There was Neal, walking out of the gates with that familiar, confident gait, dressed in the stylish suit and hat he'd been wearing that day, eight months ago – the day when it'd been determined that, pending further investigation into the circumstances surrounding the explosion that had caused Kate's death, Neal's special arrangement with the FBI was to be suspended.

Three years remaining on his sentence – but Peter'd had no intention of allowing Neal to spend it behind bars.

He'd earned better than that.

"Neal!" Peter called out across the distance that separated them, and Neal looked up, a little startled, but glancing in the wrong direction, as if he hadn't even noticed that Peter was there yet. "Hey, Neal! Over here!"

Finally, Neal looked toward Peter, lifting a hand in a brief wave of acknowledgement and changing his direction to head toward the car. Peter frowned slightly, struck by the abrupt, inexplicable sense that something wasn't quite right. There'd been a slight hesitation in Neal's gait as he'd changed pace, or perhaps a moment's lapse before the patented Caffrey grin slid into place, or… _something_, something Peter couldn't put his finger on that just set his instincts on edge.

But then the moment passed, and it was gone, and Peter could only wonder if he'd imagined it in the first place, as Neal reached him, his blue eyes bright and his smile cheerful and cheeky as always.

"Peter," he acknowledged with a nod, tipping his hat toward him with a graceful confidence that seemed untouched by the past eight months. "Took you long enough."

The words were light and teasing, not touched with even the slightest note of accusation – but they still stung a bit, bringing to mind the countless sleepless nights and frustrating dead ends that had been the only result of Peter's efforts for a very, very long time.

"Hey, getting them to release you into my custody the first time was hard enough," Peter retorted, masking the slight defensiveness he felt with a grin as he moved forward to meet Neal.

He clapped a hand on his shoulder – then, when that didn't feel like quite enough, impulsively stepped forward and wrapped an arm around the younger man's shoulders in a brief but warm hug – and that was when he felt it. It was slight, almost imperceptible – for anyone who hadn't spent the last several years of his life learning just about every subtle nuance of the behavior of one Neal Caffrey. Neal laughed a little in surprise, light and amused – but he tensed under Peter's arm, and when Peter withdrew, his gaze was averted, his smile a little awkward.

Peter frowned a little to himself as he moved around the car to unlock the doors, shaking his head slightly.

_Was that a mistake? Maybe the hug was a little much. Did we_ ever _hug before?_

He couldn't really remember; it had just felt like the thing to do in the moment.

Maybe it wasn't.

Peter did his best to ease the strange sense of tension he wasn't even sure he was feeling as Neal got into the passenger side of the car and closed the door.

"El can't wait to see you! She's been trying out new recipes all week, trying to come up with the perfect welcome home meal. I'm telling you, the guys at work have never eaten so good!"

Those words at least earned Peter a smile with a little more warmth to it, touched with genuine humor. "Don't tell me what she settled on," Neal advised. "I'm sure she wants it to be a surprise."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it!" Peter laughed. "You kidding me? I wouldn't hear the end of it. She's really putting a lot into your homecoming, Neal, with the cooking and baking and…" Peter hesitated slightly, clearing his throat in a pitiful attempt to cover it. "… cleaning. You know, setting up our guest room. If you want it."

Neal glanced out the window, fingers tapping idly on the arm rest, his smile taking on a vaguely disappointed edge. "Guess it'd be too much to hope that June would still have my room available, after all this time."

"Nah, she rented it out a few months back," Peter confirmed. He wanted to hold out on the rest of the story a little while longer, but his mouth was twitching slightly, betraying his amusement – not that Neal was even looking at him. Peter frowned again, worried. Suddenly, reassuring Neal of the old life that was waiting for him at home seemed far more important than teasing him with half-true information. "Let the guy know about a week ago that he'd have to move out. He wasn't too thrilled about it."

Neal finally looked up at Peter, his eyes lit with genuine, pleased surprise. "Really?"

"Of course." Peter grinned. "You think she'd want to have anybody staying there over you?" He paused, adding with a little half-shrug, "Of course, she had to give him a little notice. He was paying rent and all – you know, the kind with actual paperwork, and _without_ the free but ridiculously expensive wardrobe. Still – he had it pretty good for a few weeks."

Neal was quiet for a moment, just taking in Peter's words. "Yeah, well," he replied at last, his voice strangely soft, a little too carefully casual, "he had to know it was too good to last, right?"

Peter glanced at him again, increasingly troubled by Neal's strangely pensive mood. He'd expected Neal to be a little more excited to be free again – more or less. He'd expected the teasing about Peter's taking his sweet time in getting him out. He'd expected the patented Caffrey charm to be in full effect. What he hadn't expected was this quiet, strangely calm, almost withdrawn version of his friend that was sitting beside him now.

"Well, anyway," Peter continued, letting out a deep breath that he knew betrayed his own unease, "you can stay with us. Just until your room at June's is free again. If you want."

Neal frowned slightly, glancing at Peter with an uncertainty that was unsettling to see on Neal Caffrey's face. "I don't know," he replied. "I don't want to put you guys out…"

"Oh, don't give me that crap," Peter retorted with a little huff of laughter. "You _live_ to put me out."

"I like to think I have interests that are quite a bit more varied and refined than that." When Peter glanced over at Neal, he was smiling slyly. "You know… that happen to _include_ making your life… more interesting."

"That's one way of putting it." Peter felt a sense of relief at the glimpse he was getting of the Neal he knew so well, and he smiled. "And you know better than to think you'd be putting us out. We haven't seen you in months. We kinda like the idea of having you around for a while."

Neal didn't respond at first, and Peter glanced over at him, noting with satisfaction that he seemed pleased and touched by Peter's words. After a moment, Neal replied at last, and Peter thought he heard a trace of relief in his voice.

"Okay. If that's what you and Elizabeth really want."

"It is." Peter was firm and insistent, though he knew the decision was already final.

When they reached the house, Peter was again struck by Neal's strange, just slightly off behavior – the way he hung back behind Peter and waited for him to lead the way up to the door. When Peter opened it, however, the choice was physically taken from his hands, as El met them with a delighted little squeal of excitement, immediately pulling Neal into a tight hug on the doorstep, before backing off only enough to take his hand and tug him impatiently inside.

"Come on, sweetie, get in here," she urged him. "I missed you so much!"

"Aw, hon, that's so sweet, but I was only gone a few hours," Peter replied with good-natured sarcasm, to which El responded with a roll of her eyes – and a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I missed you, too," she assured him with a warm, teasing smile. "I just haven't been missing you for _nearly _as long."

Peter met her smile with his own, and then a second kiss, on the mouth this time, and not quite as brief – but his thoughts were still focused on Neal. He knew now that he wasn't imagining it. He'd watched when El had hugged him, and noticed the same strange reaction – the odd tension in the set of Neal's shoulders, the way he seemed to almost imperceptibly pull away before falling into his old mannerisms and graciously accepting the gesture.

_So, he wasn't just reacting to _me_ that way, then. Something's definitely off with_ _him_.

Not surprisingly, that didn't make Peter feel even a little bit better.

Throughout the delicious dinner El had prepared, Peter kept an eye on Neal, watching for any more signs that something wasn't quite right – and finding plenty of them. Neal smiled and responded to conversation when it was appropriate, but his smile was a little thin, and his responses distracted – and he barely made eye contact with either of them at all. El seemed oblivious, keeping up a steady stream of conversation that at least managed to make Neal laugh a few times, until the last of their dessert was gone and their coffee cups were cooling and nearly empty.

"Elizabeth, that was amazing," Neal declared with a warm smile as he laid his napkin carefully on the table. "I haven't had anything so delicious in… well…" His voice trailed off, his smile faltering slightly before it fell back into place with a self-deprecating little shrug. "Well… in you _know_ how long."

Neal only allowed a moment of awkward silence before he continued, favoring El with a bright smile. "Well, anyway, it was… _wonderful._"

"Thanks, Neal," El replied, taking his arm and rising on her toes to give him a light kiss on the cheek. "Let's go in the living room. We've got a lot of catching up to do… or if you're tired, we rented a couple of movies…"

"Actually," Neal replied with an apologetic but warm smile, "I _am_ really tired, Elizabeth. Would you think I was terribly rude if I just wanted to… take a shower and get some sleep?"

"Of course not, sweetie." El dismissed his apology with a wave. "You must be exhausted. Whatever you want to do. Let me show you to the guest bedroom and bathroom upstairs."

While El took Neal upstairs, Peter went into the master bedroom and got comfortable, kicking off his shoes and changing from his button down to a soft, gray t-shirt and sweats. By the time El returned, Peter was sitting on the sofa with a mostly full beer in his hand, staring blankly at the empty TV screen. She glanced at the screen as she sat down on the sofa beside him, nestling in close to his side and resting her arm across his leg before she spoke in a conspiratorially hushed voice.

"What'd I miss?"

Peter couldn't really muster up a laugh, but he glanced down, shaking his head with a sad smile. "Nothing, I suspect. I just – can't figure out what's up with him…"

"Seriously?" El withdrew a little, just enough to meet Peter's eyes with a questioningly raised brow. "Peter, honey… I know he's acting a little strangely…"

"Try a _lot_ strangely," Peter corrected grimly. "Try, like a whole different person level of 'strangely'."

"Okay, yeah, maybe," El conceded. "But Peter – who wouldn't?"

She waited until he turned to meet her gaze to go on, her tone patient and thoughtful. "He's been locked up for the past eight months, away from anyone he's close to, not sure when – or you know, _if_ – he was going to get out – and you think he's not going to be a little out of sorts, his very first day home? He's acting weird, yeah. I'm sure he _feels_ weird, you know?"

"Yeah," Peter sighed. "I guess… I don't really have any idea how he's feeling right now. Kate, the music box, everything that happened… and there was never any time to talk about any of it, to see where he stood or… I don't even know if he was going to leave or not, El. I really think… right there at the last moment…"

"I know," El interrupted gently. "You told me, honey. And I know… you've been waiting to be able to talk about all of this for a long time. But… now you _have_ time. You'll get the chance to talk about everything, you'll see." She paused, reaching up to touch Peter's cheek and draw his troubled gaze back to her. "But you know as well as I do," she continued matter-of-factly, "if you push Neal at all, on any of this… you'll get nothing."

"I know," Peter conceded, trying not to let his frustration seep into his tone, and only failing a little bit. "I _know_, El, it's just… I can't help him if he won't…"

"Maybe you're getting a little bit ahead of yourself," El suggested mildly. At Peter's questioning look, she raised a single brow and clarified, "How do you even know that he needs to be helped?"

Peter was taken aback by her words, expressing a possibility he hadn't really considered. Maybe Neal really _was_ fine. Maybe he just needed a few days to get used to being back home, back with the people who loved him. Perhaps he just needed time to adjust to his old routine, and he'd return to his old self again naturally. By the time Peter and El were ready to go to bed later that night, Peter had just about allowed himself to believe that he was probably just overreacting.

El was right; he had a tendency to over-think things, especially when it came to Neal. He was just beginning to drift off to sleep, thinking that tomorrow things would be a little clearer, and it would just take time for Neal to start to feel like himself again and things to return to the way they were before.

That thought was still drifting through his mind, fading into sleep… when the screaming started.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal hadn't been sleeping long when he was suddenly, completely awake, though he wasn't sure why, or what had awakened him. However, he did immediately know where he was – in the simple but warm and inviting guest bedroom at the Burkes' house – but something was different. Something was _wrong_.

He couldn't move.

Alarmed, Neal tried to sit up, but his body couldn't seem to respond to his brain's commands. His arms and legs simply stayed where they were, keeping him flat on his back on the mattress. He opened his mouth to call out, but no sound escaped, his voice as paralyzed as his body.

A malicious laugh echoed in the darkness around him, a familiar voice taking pleasure in his rising fear. The words were soft with a false sympathy, and far too close to Neal's ear.

"Don't bother fighting, Neal. It's not going to do any good."

Panicked, Neal could do nothing but try to fight anyway, as useless as his efforts might prove to be. His assailant, invisible in the darkness, was abruptly upon him on the bed, vice-like hands grasping his wrists and holding him fast. Just as Neal seemed to find the strength to rise, the weight of the body over him pinned him down, familiar hands moving over Neal's body with the ease and intimacy of frequent practice – while still, somehow, seeming to hold his hands down. Neal tried to scream, tried to curse and yell at his attacker, to plead for him to stop, _anything _– but he could barely breathe, let alone get out any sound.

"Shhh," the man hushed him, his gentle sympathy sending a sick shiver down Neal's spine, tears of shame prickling behind his eyes. "Quiet, Neal… no one's going to hear you anyway…"

_Peter… Peter, please_ help me…

As if his words were made audible by his sheer desperation, the man responded with a mocking laugh, his hand stroking down Neal's cheek with invasive gentleness. "He can't hear you, Neal," he informed him in a conspiratorial whisper. "He's not coming to help you. No one's coming to help you. You're _mine_, Neal… always will be…"

Abruptly, the weight was gone, along with the blankets, the clothes he'd worn to bed – even the room around him. Bright light assaulted Neal's eyes, and he struggled to see his surroundings – his heart plummeting into his stomach when he recognized where he was.

The cell where he'd spent the greater part of the past eight months, only the bed, the sink, his few personal possessions were all gone. There was only the narrow gurney on which he was lying – complete with the firm leather restraints that held his wrists and ankles, preventing him from rising. He struggled frantically, panicked, desperate… but he already knew there was no escape.

_No, no,_ no_! This can't happen_, _someone, help me… Please, _Peter_, _help_ me!_

"Doesn't matter where you try to go, Neal," his captor whispered into his ear, hands trailing over his exposed body with possessive familiarity. "Doesn't matter how far away you think you've gotten. You'll always be right here… with me…"

"Neal! Neal, wake up!"

Elizabeth rushed into the guest room, just a few seconds behind Peter, who was already leaning over Neal, reaching out to shake his shoulder to wake him; but Neal didn't awaken, just kept thrashing against the blankets tangled around him, crying out with a plaintive, desperate sound that tore at Elizabeth's heart.

"_Peter_!" he gasped, voice breaking, trembling with panic. "Peter, _help me… please_…"

"I'm right here, Neal," Peter insisted, his own voice shaky with alarm, as he desperately shook Neal's arm, trying to rouse him. "Come on, buddy, wake up… you're dreaming. _Come on_, Neal…"

Neal didn't seem to even register that Peter was there, struggling wildly against the layers of fabric wound around his limbs, not reassured by Peter's words or touch, in fact only seeming to grow more panicked by the moment. An abrupt realization came to Elizabeth, and she reached out to touch Peter's arm, waiting until he met her eyes, frantic and worried, to point out her conclusion.

"He can't move. He's all tangled up in the blankets, and whatever he's dreaming, that's making it worse. We have to get the blankets off."

Peter nodded, turning back toward Neal and focusing his efforts instead on the layers of bedding that covered him, doing his best to strip them away and give Neal back his freedom of movement. It took a couple of minutes, their efforts hindered by Neal's struggles, and Neal continued fighting for a few moments longer even after he was free, until Elizabeth cautiously reached out to touch his arm.

"Neal, sweetie," she softly pleaded, "come on, wake up. You're okay…"

Neal jerked away from her, eyes suddenly wide open as he frantically scrambled away from her, drawing himself up against the headboard and staring as if he didn't quite recognize her. Alarmed, Peter stepped forward, a hand on El's shoulder pushing her gently back and placing himself between his wife and his thoroughly freaked out, clearly not-in-control friend.

"Neal," Peter said, his voice low and firm. "Neal, you're okay. Look at me, Neal."

Neal stared up at Peter blankly for a long moment, his breath quick and shallow, before averting his gaze and taking in the room around him, visibly beginning to calm as he remembered where he was, and why. He closed his eyes, lowering his head and swallowing hard, before letting out a shaky, thoroughly unconvincing laugh.

"Wow," he said at last, breathless and falsely light. "That was some nightmare."

"Yeah." Peter's tone was flat, an eyebrow raised skeptically. "Some nightmare, all right. Looks like it came complete with 3D and surround sound." He paused, sitting down on the edge of the bed before adding with a forced casualness, "Want to tell me what it was about?"

Neal started to cross his arms over his torso, but then seemed to remember what an obvious tell that would be, and ended up with a single arm cast loosely across his waist, his other hand picking idly at the sheet beneath him. He was back to avoiding eye contact, his tone carefully neutral.

"Not really. Just need to get back to sleep. It's been a really long day."

"_Neal_…" Peter's voice was warning, stern.

"Really, Peter, I'm sorry for waking you," Neal insisted, looking up to meet Peter's eyes at last with a blindingly bright smile, far too bright to be natural at this hour, nightmare or no. "But it's just a nightmare. It happens. Especially when you've spent the last eight months surrounded by guys who kill other guys for fun. Really, I'm fine. You two should just go back to bed."

Peter persisted, frowning, "Neal, that was pretty intense. I think you should probably…"

"I can spend the night elsewhere after tonight if it's a problem," Neal cut him off, an unusually sharp edge creeping into his voice, his smile settling into stone, the light in his eyes becoming angry and hard. "I would hate to disturb your rest. But I really don't want to talk about this, Peter."

Peter stood and physically withdrew a couple of steps, the expression on his face something like El would have imagined if he'd actually been slapped. "Hate to… to _disturb_ my… Neal, you can't seriously think that _that's_ what bothers me about this? I don't care about having my damn _sleep_ interrupted, I just want to know that you're okay…"

"Well, I am," Neal insisted with a careless shrug. "So you can go back to sleep now, Peter. Honest."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "You know, when people feel the need to add 'honest' to their statements… they're usually _not_."

"Peter, this is ridiculous," Neal insisted. "I'm going back to bed now, so… thank you very much for the room, and for the concern. But… I'm fine. Just… exhausted. So if you'll excuse me…"

And without waiting for any further response, Neal picked up the blankets from beside the bed where Elizabeth had discarded them, then laid back down and pulled them unceremoniously over him, turning his back toward his overly concerned hosts. Muttering under his breath in irritation, Peter turned on his heel and stomped back down the stairs toward his own bedroom.

Elizabeth didn't move from where she stood beside the bed.

Neal's comment about the type of people he'd been surrounded by in prison lingered in her mind, a vaguely unsettled feeling building in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to think too much about what prison must have been like for Neal, or the dangers he might have faced inside those walls, with no one there to protect him. That blindingly false smile he'd given Peter flashed through her mind again, and Elizabeth suppressed a shiver.

She _definitely_ didn't want to think about how unbelievably, _dangerously _beautiful Neal was.

She stood there a moment, collecting her thoughts, drawing in a slow, deep breath. "_Neal_." Her voice was soft, but insistent.

Neal did not respond.

She hesitated for just a moment before carefully sitting down on the side of the bed. He didn't react, didn't turn over to face her – but he didn't shift away from her, or tell her to leave, either, so she supposed that was _something_, at least. She was quiet for a moment, carefully weighing her words, trying to find a way to express what was on her mind – a way that wouldn't send Neal running from their house in the middle of the night, the moment she left the room.

"Neal… I know Peter's being a little pushy, but… you know he's just concerned. He just wants to make sure you're okay." She hesitated. "I – I want to make sure of that, too. Because – we love you, Neal. And… if anything happened that you want to…"

"Nothing _happened_," Neal sighed, his voice a little muffled from the other side of the blankets. "Elizabeth, I appreciate it, but… I'm fine."

"The nightmare you just had? With the screaming and the talking and the almost assaulting a federal officer in your sleep?" Elizabeth pointed out. "That doesn't really spell out 'fine'. Look, no one's going to force you to talk about anything you don't want to talk about. No one's going to… to force you to do _anything _you don't want to do, Neal, but… we do _know_ that something's wrong. And… we're here for you, if you decide you want to talk after all."

She moved as if to stand, shifting slightly on the mattress.

"Kate." Neal's voice was hushed, thick with emotion that he was still utterly unwilling to allow her to see. "I was… dreaming about Kate. That's all."

There was just a moment when Elizabeth allowed herself to believe that it could be the truth. After all, Kate's death had been brutal and violent and devastating for Neal; it wouldn't be all that surprising to think that the trauma had followed him throughout his prison sentence, even until now, eight months later.

But the only problem with that was, if that was really what he was dreaming about… why not just say so? Perhaps simply because he didn't want to open up, didn't want to show any vulnerability; that was typical Neal, all right. But – then what suddenly changed his mind? It didn't seem so much like an abrupt change of heart and a decision to tell her the truth, as a hastily conceived, last minute cover story for whatever it was he'd _really_ been dreaming about.

El frowned, biting her lower lip and looking down at Neal, almost completely invisible to her under the blankets, except for a shock of dark hair, and part of one hand, clasping the blanket and holding it in place, as if she might try to take it from him again. She wasn't sure whether she was more worried by the fact that it was an obvious lie, or by the fact that it took Neal so long to come up with what was the obvious _choice_ for a lie.

_Definitely not Neal Caffrey's best work…_

Finally, she reached down and placed her hand gently over his, relieved when he didn't pull away.

"Okay," she conceded softly. "Just… let us know if you need anything, okay? We'll be right downstairs if you _do_ decide you want… well, anything."

"Thanks," Neal said quietly, still not looking at her, and the relief in his voice told her that he was grateful not so much for her offer, as for the fact that she was finally going to leave him alone.

She went back downstairs to her own room, where Peter was lying in the bed, but not sleeping, staring morosely at the wall. When she climbed into the bed, he rolled over and moved in close behind her, wrapping his arm around her. She placed her hand on his arm, stroking slowly, soothingly. No words needed to be spoken; they both knew the concerns they shared.

Those concerns kept Peter awake for nearly an hour after that. He didn't speak, but El heard when his breathing finally became even and slow, and knew that he'd finally fallen asleep. She didn't fall asleep again that night, too consumed with her troubled thoughts, her ears attuned for any further sounds of distress from the guest bedroom upstairs.

She heard none – but couldn't help but wonder, as the morning sun rose and she got out of bed to face her day, if that just meant that sleep hadn't come again that night for _Neal_, either.


	4. Chapter 4

When Neal first arrived at maximum security – for the second time – he was braced for the worst.

It hadn't really been so bad, the first time. For the first few weeks he'd simply kept his head low and kept an eye out to gauge the dynamics of the place – which guys to befriend, which guys to defer to, and which guys to just avoid at all costs because they were downright psychotic. He'd quickly learned to play the game, used his charm and his wits to ingratiate himself to those in control, and then sailed through the rest of his sentence with relative ease – until he walked out the front doors with three months to go.

This time… this time would be different, he knew.

This time… he'd spent the past year working for the Feds.

That made him a narc – and it made him a target. Neal knew that this time, he'd have to watch his back. He was prepared for it to be a far more dangerous, unpleasant stay in maximum security, and knew he'd have to be vigilant every waking moment – if he could even _allow_ himself non-waking ones at all – until Peter managed to get him out. He would actually have preferred solitary confinement to the dangers he was sure awaited him now, but for whatever reason, he had been placed back in the general population, despite the paperwork Peter had filed requesting otherwise.

Neal was cautiously relieved, and more than a little suspicious, to find that during his first week back, the other inmates pretty much left him alone. There were brief, stilted, but civil conversations in the cafeteria over meals, during which Neal did his best to just nod and smile and not give them any reason to believe that he thought he was better than them, above all this, shouldn't even be here because he hadn't even _done_ anything this time…

At any rate, it was a lot easier than he'd expected it to be – which just meant that when the other shoe finally did drop, he knew it was going to be worse than he'd imagined. At the end of his sixth lunch there, when Neal went to take his tray back to the rack set out for them, and another prisoner bumped hard into his shoulder, Neal tensed, braced for the worst.

_Here it comes… this is it…_

The other prisoner was a big, burly guy with sharp, dark eyes and a scowl that frequently sent his fellow prisoners scurrying back to their holes to hide – but all Neal saw in his eyes now was alarm – in the couple of seconds before the guy dropped his eyes nervously.

"Sorry, dude," he said, holding up his hands in an appeasing gesture. "Sorry… it was an accident, man."

Neal smiled, confused, and shook his head. "No problem," he said. "No harm done."

It was after that strange incident that Neal started to realize – he'd been spending so much time trying not to anger or offend his fellow prisoners, that he hadn't even noticed – they were all trying not to anger or offend _him_. He couldn't understand how he could possibly have this kind of an effect on them, what reason they would have to be so frightened of a non-violent offender that, in all reality, should have been seen as easy prey.

The light bulb went on in Neal's mind that night, at lights out, and a slow smile spread across his face.

_Mozzie…_

It had to be. Mozzie had an impressive array of connections, and it wasn't hard to imagine his reach extending even beyond these prison walls. Mozzie must have found a way to spread some kind of story about him, like his "Dentist of Detroit" alias, or bribed or threatened someone into making sure that the other inmates knew he wasn't to be harmed, or _something_ – this _had_ to be Mozzie's doing; nothing else made sense.

Until the end of his second week, when two guards showed up at his cell to inform him that the warden wanted to see him.

He was cuffed and shackled and led off the concrete and metal block where his cell was located, and into the administrative part of the prison, down a carpeted, well-lit hallway to an office with a heavy wooden door that read _Warden Thomas Blake_ on a silver placard. The warden looked up with a disarming smile as the guards led Neal inside, then nodded at them in silent instruction to leave.

Neal couldn't help feeling a little nervous. He hadn't done anything since he'd been here, hadn't broken any rules – but the rest of the inmates certainly seemed to believe he was dangerous, and Neal had to wonder what lies had been told about him in order to accomplish that.

"Have a seat, Caffrey," Blake instructed with a little nod toward the soft leather chair opposite his desk.

Cautiously, Neal complied, settling into the seat before looking up to meet the warden's eyes with a bright, innocent smile. "Have I done something wrong, Warden?"

"Oh, no, not at all," Blake assured him with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Quite the opposite. I just wanted to make sure that you've been… adjusting well to your stay here. No – issues with the other inmates?"

Neal's nerves grew a little shakier with the confirmation of what this was about, and he decided to take the safest tack – honesty. "No, sir," he replied. "In fact – no one's given me any trouble at all… which is… kind of surprising, actually. For the past year I've been working with…"

"Believe me, Mr. Caffrey, I know all about your… special circumstances," Warden Blake interrupted with a knowing smile as he rose from his seat and came around the desk to lean against it, facing Neal more directly. "I was informed when you came here that this environment might pose… certain _risks_ to your safety. In fact, your Agent Burke of the white collar division recommended solitary confinement for the duration of your stay here, for your own protection." The warden frowned, shaking his head with a grimace of distaste. "I said I didn't think that'd be healthy at all – not when we're not even sure how long you'll be here. A man can lose his mind, with no contact of any kind with the world outside of a single dark, grey room."

Neal nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. He had to admit that the thought of such total isolation was more than a little unnerving. He'd prefer it to being beaten, or worse – but only slightly. He swallowed, looking up to hold the warden's gaze as he stepped forward and leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of Neal's chair. He still wasn't entirely sure what this was about, but he was increasingly sure that there was more at play here than a simple disciplinary lecture.

"You're not the kind of man that's cut out for prison, Neal," Blake stated quietly, a vaguely mocking smile at the corners of his mouth. "You're not a violent man. I've gathered that much from your rather… extensive history. And… you're far too pretty to last long in here… untouched."

As Blake spoke, his hand shifted slightly on the arm of the chair, his thumb rubbing slightly against Neal's arm where it rested there. Neal pulled away from the unexpected contact, abruptly uncomfortable, and a little alarmed. He felt a swift rush of heat to his face, and he swallowed, forcing back his instinct to look away and instead maintaining steady, unwavering eye contact.

"I told you," he said, carefully keeping his voice level and calm. "Nothing's… happened to me since I've been here. They're all – pretty much leaving me alone."

"That's good." The warden's knowing smile made Neal deeply, profoundly uneasy, and he glanced away at last. He just wanted to be back in the cold, gray security of his own cell, and away from this man with his unsettling smiles and inappropriate familiarity. "And… why do you think that is, Neal?"

Neal looked up at him again sharply, frowning. "I don't know," he replied at last, slowly. "Why is that?"

"Because I put the word out before you arrived. Made sure it was clear to every guard, and every prisoner. No one's to lay a hand on you. Anyone who does will suffer consequences – and not the kind of consequences that make it into an inmate's official record, either. They all know not to bother you – because they're afraid of what will happen if they do."

Neal's frown deepened, eyes narrowing as he studied the warden's smugly smiling face. "Why?" he asked quietly. "Why would you do that?"

The warden shrugged slightly. "Maybe I just can't stand the thought of a brilliant mind like yours driven to madness in the confines of solitary. Maybe I just want to keep from having to file a bunch of annoying paperwork when you eventually, inevitably get sent to the infirmary. Or maybe…" His cool smile widened, and he leaned in to speak close to Neal's ear, not moving his hands from the arms of the chair, "… maybe I just like the idea of you owing me one."

The morning after Neal's mysterious nightmare was Saturday – but still, Neal was up aggressively early, bright and smiling and welcoming Peter and El to a kitchen table already laden with waffles and eggs and sausage when they came down the stairs, still in their pajamas.

"Morning," he said cheerfully. "Hungry?"

"I am now," Peter declared, wasting no time in taking his seat at the table as he inhaled the sweet and spicy aroma. "What's the occasion, Neal? You didn't have to do all this."

"The occasion is, 'I was a ridiculously ungrateful jerk last night, and I want to make it up to you both,'" Neal explained as he poured juice into three tall glasses. "I'm really sorry, guys. I was just… incredibly tired, and… I'm a little stressed at the moment, as I'm sure you can imagine, and I didn't feel like having a dream analysis session in the middle of the night. But it was still inappropriate for me to behave the way I did. So… breakfast." He beamed at El as she took a bite of waffle and closed her eyes, rolling her head back in obvious pleasure. "Hope you like it."

"It's perfect," El declared. "But Neal, sweetie… you don't have to apologize. You don't owe anyone any explanation of your _dreams_ of all things. Really, I can't imagine anything more personal, and we were on the pushy side."

Peter withheld judgment, either of Neal's behavior or of theirs. He knew El had a point, and Neal wasn't obligated to share anything with them; but he also knew _Neal_, and he knew that Neal hid _everything_, no matter how desperately he might need to get it out. It was second nature at this point, and saying that they should "let Neal come to them in his own time" was like saying that they should just let Neal suffer in silence until whatever it was he was struggling with consumed him from the inside out.

And Peter wasn't particularly accustomed to sitting back and doing nothing while someone he cared about suffered.

_Maybe he'll talk to El. Maybe if I just get out of the way for a while…_

"I'm headed to the hardware store after breakfast," he announced around a mouthful of the most perfectly fried egg he had ever tasted. "Got to fix that hinge on the bathroom door this afternoon."

"Mind if I go along?" Neal offered.

Peter blinked at him in disbelief. "I'm sorry. Did I say Neiman Marcus? I meant to say I was going to _the hardware store_."

Neal grinned at him, actually swallowing his bite before he replied. "I heard you. I just thought you might like some company."

Peter cast an uncertain glance at El, who nodded almost imperceptibly, smiling. "I've got tons of work to do on the Reynolds wedding next Saturday. Please, by all means – get your gorgeous selves out of my hair."

The drive to the hardware store was quiet, weighted with the knowledge that despite his silence, Neal wouldn't have invited himself along if he hadn't wanted to talk. All Peter had to do was wait, give him time – but that wait was _killing_ him. They bought the hinges and screws that Peter needed, and then got back into the car. They were halfway home when Neal finally broke the silence.

"The nightmares are… pretty bad."

Peter was quiet for a moment before nodding slowly. "I gathered." He frowned suddenly. "Nightmares? Plural? You get them a lot?"

"Yeah," Neal admitted, staring out the window, his lips compressed into a tight line. "I've been getting them since… well, since I went back."

Peter hesitated, steeling himself for an answer he didn't want to hear. "Did… something _happen_ when you went back…?"

"The nightmares are about Kate," Neal stated flatly. "It's always the same dream… and it always ends the same way. She's… she's in that plane, at the window, and… it's on fire, and… and I can't get to her in time."

His voice was low and trembling, and there were tears shining in Neal's eyes, though he didn't allow them to fall; Peter studied him as closely as he dared while driving down the road. Neal seemed as sincere as Peter could remember seeing him, and it made sense, given the fact that he'd had no time at all to grieve, to come to terms with what had happened to the love of his life, before getting dumped back into prison to pay for a crime he hadn't committed.

_Peter, help me, please!_

Neal's words of the night before echoed in Peter's mind, and his heart sank with an overwhelming feeling of guilt and sorrow. Was that how Neal saw it, if not on a conscious level, then subconsciously? Did he believe that Peter could have helped, could have saved Kate, and didn't? There was nothing either of them could have done, but so many times Peter had tried to stop Neal from finding her, so many times he'd discouraged their being together again at all – might things have played out differently if _Peter _had reacted differently?

And more importantly – did _Neal_ believe that?

"Neal, I – I'm so sorry you lost her," Peter stated softly, honestly. "I hope you know that – if there'd been anything I could have done…"

"I know that, Peter," Neal cut him off quietly. "I don't blame you for… any of it." Neal looked out the window again, swallowing hard, his voice thick and strangely hard. "It's not like you could have known what would happen."

Peter frowned, caught off guard by Neal's tone, by the cold, distant look in his eyes, despite the gleam of tears that shone there.

In spite of Neal's absolving words, Peter still felt as if he was getting blamed for _something_. But at least Neal had taken the first step to actually open up to him – and that was a step in the right direction.

_It _has _to be – right?_


	5. Chapter 5

The FBI gave Neal a week following his release in which to adjust back to normal life.

It was a week during which Elizabeth took off as much time as she could to spend with Neal, and made every single one of his favorite dishes that she could think of for dinner, and tried very hard to pretend not to notice the bright, brittle smiles and maddeningly light, casual conversation that punctuated those dinners – dinners which Peter, for once, made a point of being on time for every night.

And maybe that was the problem, she guessed – maybe they were all just trying _too_ hard.

Neal was _definitely_ trying to make them believe that nothing had changed, that he was exactly the same guy that had left them eight months earlier – but Elizabeth knew him too well to believe that. She couldn't put her finger on exactly what was bothering her, because after the nightmare that first night, Neal had seemed just like his old self – charming and positive and gracious, quick to help around the house or to prepare dinner for her and Peter when they both had to work a little late on Tuesday.

Monday morning, he went by and visited June, and Elizabeth was thrilled when he returned to see his arms laden down with his art supplies.

She was just as disappointed, toward the end of the week when she was straightening up the guest room, to find a half dozen barely marked canvases stuffed under the bed. They were works that had hardly been started at all; certainly there wasn't enough there to declare them failures and throw them out – but that seemed to be what Neal had done with them.

She didn't mention them, didn't feel that she could without violating Neal's sense of privacy, but Elizabeth noticed. She noticed all the little things that were missing, cracks in Neal's usually expert façade – the vanished sparkle of mischief in his eyes when he smiled a less-than-genuine smile, the way he seemed to go to bed earlier, and conveniently not get up in the morning until after she and Peter could reasonably be assumed to have gone to work.

She tried her best to abide by her own advice, and simply wait for Neal to come to them, if he wanted to – but by the time the week was over and Neal was going back to work with Peter, Elizabeth had to admit that she felt a certain guilty sense of relief.

Maybe this was all he needed – maybe just to fall into his old routine, and remind himself of his life before prison, and who he'd been before.

Seven days of trying to make ordinary conversation over dinner, while Peter gave him that nerve-wracking _look_ that meant he was analyzing every single word out of Neal's mouth for ulterior meanings. Seven days of pretending not to notice that for some reason, every single meal Elizabeth prepared happened to be centered around one of his favorite foods. Even Satchmo seemed to know that something was wrong; the dog wouldn't leave Neal's side for more than a moment, snuggling up to him when he was sitting on the couch, sitting at his feet at the dinner table, to the point that Peter almost seemed a little jealous.

Okay, that last part wasn't so bad, Neal had to admit. At least Satch had good manners enough to keep quiet about whatever unpleasant emotions he was picking up from Neal, and just offer what quiet comfort he could.

And technically, he supposed that Peter and El hadn't really _said_ that much about it, either. It was just that with those two, a simple look could say so much – and the looks that passed between them, behind his back when they thought he didn't notice, made Neal's stomach churn and a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

Of course, that nightmare on his first night back had been rather… _unfortunate_. In the daylight, Neal could put on his stylish suit and his favorite hat and his patented smile that made it clear that nothing could touch him. He could deflect and misdirect and play every game in his extensive repertoire to keep them from figuring it out.

But in a single, unguarded moment, his own subconscious had betrayed him, and left Peter and El worried and wondering about things Neal would rather stayed forever in the dark.

Peter seemed to have bought his story about Kate – and it wasn't _really_ a lie. The nightmare Neal had described to Peter had filled many of his nights since that terrible day at the airfield. He could almost smell the smoke, could hear her voice crying out to him, but couldn't do anything to save her – and he really _had_ relived that nightmare over and over again during his last stay in prison.

It was just… _this_ was a _different _nightmare.

Neal had hoped that putting Peter off on a different track would put his and El's minds at ease enough that they'd leave him alone, that they'd stop worrying so much – but they continued watching him too closely, treating him too carefully, as if he was made of glass and one wrong word could shatter him. By the Monday morning following his release, Neal couldn't wait to get to the white collar office and finally have _something _to distract Peter from his constant focus on Neal's emotional state.

Neal was glad to find that their very first case back was a rather complex, intriguing affair involving gathering evidence against Brendon Banks, a young, wealthy Manhattan socialite who reportedly had a weakness for extravagant antiquities. There were quite a few well-known and expensive pieces in his personal collection, which he liked to display at his frequent, lavish parties – but someone in Banks' social circle had come forward and informed the FBI that there were _other_ pieces in Banks' possession – pieces that couldn't possibly legally be his.

It was rather convenient, then, that Banks also had a weakness for pretty young men – preferably of the naïve, vulnerable variety. According to their informant, a young man named Mark Harris, Banks liked to target young men who were new to the city, who didn't know many people, take them as conquests, and then discard them when he was through.

Harris had been one such young man.

New to Banks' social circle, he had only seen the pieces at all, he claimed, when Banks had gotten him alone at one of his parties and made a move on him, showing him a few extravagant pieces in an effort to impress him. That effort had apparently worked – and a few weeks later, Banks had moved on to his next challenge.

Perhaps Harris had come to the authorities as a means of getting payback for being used and cast aside; perhaps not. It didn't really matter, as his information seemed to be good.

It didn't take long to come up with a plan. Neal would show up at the man's next party as Neal Olsen, a naïve, fresh-faced grad student from North Carolina – on Harris's arm. Hopefully, it would not take him long to catch Banks' eye. Once Banks made his move, Neal would try to manipulate Banks into showing him some of the pieces he'd shown Harris, and hopefully bragging about how he'd acquired them. He would be wearing a wire, of course, and once he had seen and heard what they needed, Peter and his team would come in and make the arrest.

As they were leaving the office for the day, with plans to reconvene an hour before the party to set their plan in motion, Peter caught Neal's arm and pulled him back a few paces behind the others. Neal tried not to flinch under his firm grip, turning toward Peter with a questioning smile.

"You sure this is something you're okay doing?" Peter's voice was low and concerned. "I mean… this is the easiest way, but it's not the _only_ way. If you're uncomfortable…"

Neal shook his head slightly, feigning mild confusion. "Why would I be uncomfortable?"

"I don't know." Peter shrugged. "I'm just saying…" He hesitated. "… the whole point of this operation is for this guy to put the moves on you. If it was Diana, or any female agent, I'd be making sure. Why shouldn't you get the same consideration?"

Neal refused to let his gaze drop. "Because I've played this game a hundred times over the years," he pointed out. "Just never for the FBI. Trust me, Peter, I've got this."

"Okay," Peter conceded. "Okay. Just… if you feel… unsafe at all, for any reason, when you're in there… don't hesitate to use the escape phrase. We'll come right in and get you out. Just…"

"I _get it_, Peter," Neal sighed with frustration, but reached out to affectionately touch Peter's arm in reassurance. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine."

It _was_ fine… right up until the moment when it wasn't.

The plan started without a hitch. Neal hadn't been in the room for five minutes when he noticed Brendon Banks noticing _him_. Banks was in his late thirties, reasonably attractive, and carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance – and he couldn't seem to take his eyes off Neal. Neal played it up, flirting a little more obviously with Harris, smiling a little brighter, pretending not to notice Banks at all. Harris was actually the one to almost blow it, visibly nervous under Neal's attention, and quietly freaking out when Banks headed toward them.

So, Neal did everything he could to make sure that Banks focused on _him_, and not his considerably anxious, flustered ex, and when Banks offered to give Neal a tour of his home, Harris was all too happy to walk away and leave Neal to his work.

"This place is just _gorgeous_," Neal gushed, improvising with a slight hint of a southern accent to add to his air of innocence, as Banks led him away from his supposed date. "I mean, you have so many amazing things here, and such a beautiful home, and I … wow. Just… _wow_." He gave Banks a rueful little grimace, adding, "I'm sorry, it's just… I knew New York City was a cultural mecca for the arts. That's why I came here, but… I had no idea it would be like this…"

"Where are you from?" Banks asked with a polite, vaguely indulgent smile, as if the answer didn't matter all that much, and the question was just a means of remaining close to Neal.

"Arlington, North Carolina," Neal replied, glancing around again with a slightly self-conscious laugh. "Not a place where you'll find a lot of beautiful things like this."

"And one less now."

Banks' smile was warm, but his eyes were sharp and seeking, and Neal demurred, ducking his head.

"I… should probably get back to my date."

He glanced around as if looking for Mark, who had fortunately made himself invisible somewhere within the crowd. He took a step away, as if to go and look for him, and as he'd hoped, Banks reached out and caught his hand before he could move far.

"I don't see him," Banks observed, his gaze focused on Neal when Neal turned back toward him with an innocently questioning look. "Why don't you let me give you a tour of the rest of the house?"

Neal had to resist the impulse to roll his eyes at Banks' obvious ploy, instead keeping them wide and awestruck as he gazed around at his lavish surroundings, pretending not to notice as Banks steered him toward the stairs.

"Come with me," Banks said with a sly, secretive smile. "If you've a taste for pretty things, Neal… I keep my private collection on the second floor."

"Private collection… meaning… this isn't it?" Neal waved a hand vaguely to indicate the lavish display surrounding them, an eyebrow arched in surprise. "There's more?"

Banks' smile was faintly suggestive, his voice soft and leading. "Darling, you have _no_ idea."

Once they were alone in Banks' bedroom – which, Neal noted, he'd had to use a key card to enter – Banks wasted no time in making his move. He immediately turned back toward the door, pushing Neal up against it, clasping Neal's hands in his own as he leaned in to kiss him. Neal turned his head away, giving Banks his best uncertain, anxious look.

"Wait… I… I came here with Mark…"

"_Mark_," Banks huffed with quiet disdain. "I've been with Mark, Neal, and trust me… you aren't missing anything. There's nothing he can offer you that I can't. Have you _seen_ that little hovel he calls an apartment?" Banks shifted in closer, hands sliding down Neal's arms to his shoulders and around to his back and neck. "Can _Mark_ give you… all of _this_?"

It was all that Neal could do not to pull away in revulsion at the man's sheer arrogance. Neal had seen this type many times over the years – no appreciation for the beauty and artistry of the pieces he collected, or the people who surrounded him – granted, often because of said exquisite pieces. To men like Banks, beautiful works of art were nothing more than tools to his ends – a way of drawing attention and flattery onto himself. He put his hands, his mouth, on Neal with total certainty, as if he'd done this a hundred times and had no doubt whatsoever that Neal would want him by sheer virtue of his wealth and prominence. In Banks' mind, there was clearly no question as to whether his advances were wanted.

It was quite a turn-off, really.

Not that Neal could focus on that at the moment – not with Banks' hands roaming up to his wrists again, pinning him in place as he moved in to try again for a kiss. This time, Neal allowed it, well aware that he had to play along, or the mission would be shot.

_Have to pretend to like him, just for a little bit… have to play along… give him what… what he wants… do what he wants, or he'll… _

_No… no, that's not right…_

Banks' hands were tight, unyielding, on Neal's wrists, and he felt his heart rate quicken with alarm. He pulled his face away, drawing in a sharp breath and closing his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself.

_You're not there… not anymore… this is… just a job… just another con… have to play it through…_

"What?" Banks asked, his voice hushed, a frown of vague annoyance on his face. "What is it?"

"I – I just shouldn't be doing this," Neal replied, careful to keep his accent in place. "I mean… I came here with someone else, and… and I'm not used to things… moving this fast, I guess." Neal slid gracefully under the hand Banks had braced against the door, breathing a little easier once there was a bit of distance between them. "Couldn't we just… maybe just talk a little, first? I mean…" He scanned the room for some form of distraction, eyes locking onto a lovely obsidian statue on a small table beside the bed. He moved toward it, reaching out to touch it as he remarked, "This is _exquisite_. Where did you…?"

His breath caught in his throat as he felt Banks move in close behind him, warm, damp lips falling on his throat as unfamiliar hands roamed up his torso and snaked around him. "Come on, little country mouse," Banks remarked, his words low and knowing, almost taunting, in Neal's ear. "Don't play shy. You wouldn't have come into my bedroom with me if you didn't feel this… _attraction_…"

"Wait," Neal said softly, hands reaching down to stop Banks' swiftly moving exploration. "Wait a minute, don't…"

But Banks just turned his hands in Neal's grasp, catching his wrist and spinning him around before pushing him down to sit on the bed. Banks moved forward between Neal's legs, leaning down to kiss him again with one forceful hand at the back of his head, and the other still holding Neal's wrist. The kiss kiss was too forceful, too deep, selfish and unskilled. Neal instinctively tried to pull away, his stomach lurching when he found that Banks' grip was too strong to break. He drew in a sharp, shaky breath as he finally managed to get his mouth free, pushing frantically at Banks' chest with his one free hand.

"Wait," he gasped out. "_Stop_!"

"Hey, hey, easy," Banks soothed him. "Easy…"

As he spoke, Banks removed his hands, backing up a step – but Neal's heart was pounding in his throat as he lurched swiftly to his feet, and he felt dizzy and unbalanced. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to say, or what he was supposed to be doing. Banks was supposed to show him something, but his mind was racing too quickly, too focused on a much darker set of thoughts, to allow him to remember. He tried to remember the safety phrase, but the words wouldn't come to his mind, and all he could picture was Banks sliding that key card when they'd come in here and oh God, Peter couldn't get in, if he _did_ come up here, _Peter couldn't get in to help him_…

"I-I'm sorry," Neal whispered, his voice shaking dangerously as he hurried past Banks toward the door. Banks followed him swiftly, and Neal spun around, preferring to have his back to the door rather than to Banks, trembling fingers scrabbling blindly for the doorknob. "I – I have to go. I'm sorry."

"Neal, wait," Banks protested. "Wait a minute… you must have got the wrong idea… we can slow things down if you…"

"No, I have to go, I'm sorry," Neal insisted, finally getting the door open and turning, rushing unsteadily toward the stairs, and the front door, and the open safety of the street beyond.


	6. Chapter 6

Neal stepped out onto the sidewalk, drawing in a deep, shaky breath to steady his nerves. The crisp, autumn air was soothing, settling his queasy stomach and at least for the moment, clearing his mind. He glanced toward the van across the street, but took off in the opposite direction without hesitation, quickening his pace as he walked away. He wasn't sure if Banks would bother to come after him or not, but he didn't want to lead him straight to Peter and the team if he did. Then the operation would be well and truly blown.

As Neal put some distance between himself and the stifling, oppressive encounter he'd just had, he began to calm down enough to really think about what had happened, and how to salvage the mission… and what to tell Peter.

He was just rounding the corner, slowing to a measured, even walk, when suddenly, Peter was directly in front of him. Neal stopped short, stomach lurching at the unexpected confrontation, even as the rational part of his mind instantly reassured him that it was okay, it was just Peter, not a threat of any kind.

His heart still seemed to want to beat its way right out of his chest – and the thunderous glare on Peter's face, the sharp, furious tone of his voice wasn't exactly helping.

"What the hell was that?" Peter demanded. "Neal… what the hell _happened_ in there?"

"I'm sorry, Peter," Neal replied sincerely, keeping his voice level and calm. "I just – he was being really pushy, and wouldn't back off, and he wasn't interested in talking about his art… wasn't interested in talking _at all_, actually, and I just… I didn't feel safe, so I got out of there."

"The guy's a sleaze; we knew that already," Peter pointed out, his tone terse and a little suspicious. "He was _supposed_ to come onto you, wasn't he? I mean… it didn't sound that bad over the radio…"

"Yeah, well, I had to do more than listen to him," Neal snapped, even as warning alarms went off in his head, cautioning him not to let too much show, not to give Peter any reason to question his reaction any more than he was already doing. "He was all over me, and he wouldn't stop…"

"You didn't use the code word."

It was just an observation, not an accusation, and Peter's voice had softened a little; Neal felt his nerves settling some in response.

"No, because I didn't get what we need yet," he explained, relieved when Peter nodded a little in acceptance of his explanation. "I figured if I could get out of there without using it, I could salvage the operation." He paused, voice lowered as he added, "You couldn't have gotten to me, anyway. His bedroom door locks automatically from the inside; you have to have a keycard to get in."

Those words seemed to seal it; Peter blinked for a moment, eyes widening as he took in the implications of what Neal had said. Finally, he sighed, bringing forefinger and thumb to his brow for a moment before lowering his hand and shaking his head.

"Okay," he relented at last. "Okay, you're right. If you didn't feel safe, you did the right thing. The operation doesn't matter; we'll find another way."

"We don't really need one," Neal argued as Peter turned and headed back toward the van; Neal hurried to match Peter's pace and keep step with him as they walked. "As far as he knows, I just freaked out a little because he was coming on too strong. I can go back in there another night, and maybe it'll even be better, because he'll be trying to win me over, to make it up to me. I'll be an even bigger challenge to him, the one that got away, and…"

"No." Peter's voice was firm and certain.

Neal frowned. "No?" he echoed.

"You're not going back in there," Peter insisted. "Not if I can't guarantee you can get back out safely."

"Peter, it's not that…"

"End of discussion," Peter stated, deliberately hurrying his pace as they neared the van, as if to enforce his words – because he had to know that Neal wasn't going to pursue this conversation in front of the others.

And at the thought of the rest of the team, and what they had heard over the radio, and what assumptions they might be making about him right now, what conclusions they were probably reaching about what had happened – Neal felt sick again. He didn't want to face them at all… but he didn't have a choice. As Peter opened the back doors of the van, Neal drew in a deep breath, put on a bright smile, and climbed inside.

_Showtime_.

"So, what do you think _really _happened last night?"

Peter looked up from his desk at Diana, who'd entered his office to give him a file he'd requested on their case, but had broached the question abruptly, without introduction. It took his brain a few seconds to catch up and process what she was asking. When it did, Peter frowned.

"I think exactly what Neal _said_ happened, happened," he replied. "Banks came on too strong – strong enough that Neal wasn't sure he'd be able to get out of there if he let it go any further. So he didn't."

"I don't know, boss," Diana persisted, shaking her head a little as she glanced out toward Neal's desk, where he was sitting – just sitting, not fidgeting or watching people or anything at all, just staring blankly into space, lost in his own thoughts. "Neal's usually better at talking his way out of situations than he was last night. Neal Caffrey at the top of his game…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked back at Peter, a speculative look in her dark eyes. "But he's not, is he?" she concluded at last, quietly. "At the top of his game?"

Peter met her eyes for a moment, concluding from what he saw there that attempting to deflect her questions would be useless – not that he felt the need to keep anything from her. In fact, Diana was quite possibly the perfect person in whom to confide his concerns. Close enough that he knew she actually _cared_ about Neal, and yet not close enough that the fears he had yet to put into words would have a devastating emotional effect on her.

_Like they would on Elizabeth. Can't tell her what I'm thinking, not when I'm not sure. Not even when she probably already knows._

_But… Diana, on the other hand…_

"Not even close," he sighed at last. "Not… since he got out."

Diana sat down in the chair across from Peter's desk, studying his face with slowly dawning understanding. "You think… something happened. While he was inside."

"I don't know _what_ to think," Peter let out the words in a frustrated huff. "It's not like he _talks_ to me about anything anymore…"

"Oh, because he was always so forthcoming in the past," was Diana's sarcastic reply, but the humor in her voice was gentle, and touched with a subtle sympathy.

"I know, but… it's different now. _He's_ different," Peter explained. "And I don't know why. And… I don't know if I _want_ to know."

Diana was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her words were cautious and measured. "Maybe you don't need to."

Peter looked up at her, surprised and a little indignant, lips parted to argue.

"Who says he has to open up and spill his deepest, darkest secrets to be okay?" Diana continued. "That's good for some people, but… for someone like Neal… maybe he's better off just dealing with it in his own way. And if he needs to talk to someone, I know he trusts you, Peter. If he really needs to confide in someone... I'm sure he'll come to you, when he's ready."

Peter looked out his window again at Neal, who didn't seem to have moved since Peter had last glanced his way. "Yeah, well," he replied softly, "I'm _not_. And that's what scares me."

_A couple of uneventful weeks passed after the warden's confession to having arranged for Neal's safety – but Neal knew better than to think that conversation was the end of it. No stranger would take those kinds of steps to protect him, to make sure his stay in prison was as pleasant as possible, without some sort of ulterior motive – something he wanted that he thought Neal could get him. _

_And Neal was fairly certain that whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it when he found out. _

_But as the days rolled by without incident, Neal allowed himself to enjoy the relative security of knowing that his fellow inmates weren't allowed to touch him, and found himself relaxing a little. Yeah, it was clear that Warden Blake was definitely on the shady side, and whatever he wanted from Neal couldn't be good. But each day that passed brought Neal closer to the one when Peter would get everything taken care of, and he'd be free again. If he could just bide his time until then, then maybe Blake would never get around to whatever it was he intended to ask of Neal, and everything would be fine. _

_Halfway through the third week, the guards came to take Neal from his cell again, and as they turned the corner that led toward the administration wing of the prison, Neal tensed, realizing that his hopes had been in vain, and mentally preparing himself for whatever the warden had in mind. Regardless of the consequences, Neal knew one thing. _

_He wasn't going to commit a crime for this man – not when Peter was working so hard to help him on the outside. _

_As before, the guards left Neal in the warden's office, seated across from his desk, and Blake looked up from his work at Neal with a sly, secretive smile._

"_How are things going, Neal?" he asked in a light, interested tone. "Still smoothly, I hope? No problems I should know about?"_

"_No," Neal replied quietly. "Everything's fine."_

"_Good." Blake nodded, satisfied, as he rose from his seat and came around the desk. "That's good."_

_Neal braced himself as the man approached, but Blake moved past him toward the door. Curious, Neal turned to watch him over his shoulder – and froze, a sick feeling of unease coiling in the pit of his stomach when he saw that Blake had just switched off the surveillance camera that hung over the door, facing his desk. Blake's smile hadn't changed, but there was something dark and vindictive in his eyes as he approached Neal again, hands on the arms of his chair as he leaned in close to Neal's face. _

"_With things going so easily for you here, Neal," he said softly, "when we both know they could have been a fucking _nightmare_ for a pretty little narc like you… I think it's about time you showed me a little appreciation."_

_As he spoke, Blake raised one hand to stroke lightly down the side of Neal's face. Neal fought the instinct to jerk away from him, though his heart was racing with panic as Blake's intentions became suddenly, horribly clear. Instead, Neal met his eyes with a calm, vaguely derisive smile. _

"_I think you've made a terrible miscalculation as to my level of gratitude."_

_Blake's smile faltered, anger smoldering in his dark eyes, and he lashed out, striking Neal across the face with the back of his hand. With his hands cuffed in front of him and attached to the chain around his waist, Neal could do nothing about the slight trickle of blood he could feel on his lip… so he just smiled up at Blake again with bright defiance. _

"_Thanks," he said with a knowing nod. "If you're going to stop helping me out now, it's nice of you to make sure I'm not so pretty when I go back out there. Good thinking."_

_Blake laughed, a malicious grin forming on his lips. "You don't know these guys at all, do you?" he taunted, his voice going soft and suggestive as he leaned in close, his lips so near to Neal's ear that Neal could feel his warm, damp breath against his skin. "They're _drawn_ to the scent of blood. _Weakness_. It'll make them want you even more." One hand tangled in Neal's hair, roughly dragging his head back and exposing his throat as Blake met his eyes and concluded in a near whisper, "I know _I_ do."_

_Neal closed his eyes, swallowing back the sickness in the back of his throat, struggling to keep steady in the face of the threat the warden was presenting. The man seemed to get off on the idea that he was some kind of benevolent dictator, holding all the power, and yet choosing to use it for Neal's benefit. Neal didn't think he'd actually use force to make Neal do anything. He was certain. 95%. 90%, at least. With an effort, he managed to keep his voice low and level as he replied._

"_You're starting to bore me. Why don't you just do what you're going to do and be done with it?"_

_The hand in his hair tightened momentarily, and Neal tensed, braced for retaliation. After a moment, however, to his relief, Blake let go of his hair completely and backed off, standing up straight and towering over him. _

"_I'm not going to _make_ you do _anything_, Neal," he stated in a deceptively light tone of voice, with a careless little shrug. "It's your choice. You can get up any time you like, and I'll call the guards and have them take you back to your cell. No problem. But if you're wise… you won't do that. If you're wise… you'll get on your knees right now, and thank the man who's making your well-deserved stay in my prison a little better than sheer hell on earth."_

_Neal looked up to meet Blake's eyes, holding his gaze as he slowly rose to his feet – and stayed there, waiting in quiet defiance. After a moment, Blake let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. _

"_Okay," he said. "Suit yourself. It's not like I can force you."_

_The guards returned and led Neal back to his cell – where he sat on his bed, back pressed against the wall, willing his hands to stop shaking. He'd made it through whatever test the warden had tried, had shown the man that he wasn't going to trade his body, his dignity, for the privilege of protection. And yeah, that protection had been nice, but it wasn't worth what Blake had wanted. _

_Neal was almost positive that it wasn't worth it. _

_He'd keep to himself, and watch his back, maybe try to make a few friends to help with the back-watching process… and wait for Peter to get him out. _

_It was okay. He'd faced the warden, found out what he wanted… and firmly, finally, shut him down. _

_It was over._

_Except that it wasn't. _

_A few minutes after lights out that night, two guards with flashlights stopped outside Neal's cell. He wondered vaguely what they thought he'd done as they opened the door… and then his stomach lurched as several inmates were ushered inside, before the guards closed the door again and left, ignoring his calling out to them, his questions as to what they thought they were doing. _

_There was no response, as the leering men closed in on him, and the guards did not respond, and Neal realized with a sinking heart that it _wasn't_ over. Not at all._

_It was only just beginning. _


	7. Chapter 7

Neal closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the sweet-scented steam that surrounded him, relishing the pounding sting of the hot spray against his skin – a welcome distraction from the troubled, nauseating mess of his thoughts. He usually enjoyed these brief moments of solitude in the midst of the Burkes' well-meaning scrutiny – the only time these days that he seemed to be completely free of _someone's_ worried attention.

In the privacy of the Burkes' upstairs bathroom, late at night like this, was the only time when Neal could be sure that he was really, completely alone, and didn't have to worry about whether someone might notice the trembling of his hands, the distraction in his demeanor. He could simply let go, and give in to his troubled thoughts until the hot water relaxed him enough to finally let them slip away.

Of course, tonight that was more difficult than usual.

In the grand scheme of things – in comparison to the last eight months of his life – what had happened with Thomas Banks was _nothing_, really. A short-lived scare, a momentary threat that had been swiftly and easily averted. But in those brief moments, a multitude of emotions had come flooding back, and now, Neal couldn't seem to close his eyes without feeling the phantom touch of unwelcome hands on his body… and he couldn't seem to stop _shaking_.

That trapped, helpless feeling, as he was hemmed in, shut off from escape and _targeted_, like a victim, like _prey_, like nothing more than someone else's plaything, with absolutely no regard for how _he_ felt about it – the incident was over and done, and yet Neal couldn't shake the feeling, couldn't quite get his head straight.

If the incident with Banks had been the _first_ time, maybe… but it wasn't.

The possessive, exploratory slide of a stranger's hands on his body – the wet heat of an unwanted mouth against his skin, hungry and demanding, _devouring_. Neal shivered despite the shower's heat, removing his hands from his own body and bracing them against the shower wall instead. He swallowed hard, struggling to catch his breath.

_Get it together, Neal… you're not there anymore, and no one's here. It's safe… you're okay… you're okay…_

But he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching, lying in wait to take him the moment he stepped out of this room… couldn't stop feeling the greedy, grasping fingers clutching at his body, taking, bruising, _invading_…

_No… it's not real… it's not real, it's not real, please, please_ stop…

"_Hey_!" Neal yelled out as the men – five of them, leering, eyes lit with a chilling lust even in the near darkness of his cell, closed in on him, silently spreading out to surround him on all sides. "Guard! _Guard! Help!_"

Even as he called out, Neal's heart sank… because these men had just been hand-delivered to his cell by the very guards he was calling to help him. His back hit the wall, and there was no further retreat left to him. When the first one grabbed at his orange prison uniform, Neal jerked away, striking out in panicked fury.

"Don't _touch_ me!"

Someone else caught his wrist, forcing it back against the wall beside his head. Neal struggled to free himself, but he was swiftly overwhelmed, dragged away from the wall and forced face down onto the floor. His arms were yanked painfully behind his back and bound with what felt like a thick leather belt, his shoulders pinned down by someone's strong hands.

_How do they even_ have _that? It's not allowed in here._ They're _not allowed in here. How can they be doing this? They _can't _be doing this… this can't be happening…_

"Get _off_ me!" Neal yelled, his voice hoarse with panic. "Stop! _Guards! Someone help me_!"

His struggles intensified as rough, invasive hands jerked his pants down, leaving him humiliatingly exposed, but the fight was pointless. There were hands on his calves, pinning him down, hands on his shoulders, a hand in his hair, _too many _hands, everywhere else, groping, exploring.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stone hallway made the room fall silent, and Neal's hopes rose at their approach. Whatever game the guards who had done this had in mind, maybe someone else had heard the confrontation and was coming to put a stop to it. He flinched as bright flashlight beams pierced the darkness, and he felt his skin burn with shame as the light emphasized his state of helpless exposure.

Still… that light was his only hope.

"Help me," he gasped out into the expectant silence. "Please… please help me…"

"It's after lights out," a low voice barked from behind one of the flashlights. "You all are keeping everyone up."

Neal blinked, disbelieving that of all the things wrong with the scenario they'd walked in on, _that_ was what the guard chose to point out.

"Yeah," the second guard agreed, and the calm, almost bored tone of his voice chilled Neal's blood almost as much as the cold words he spoke next. "Shut him up, and keep it down, or this party's over, boys."

"_What_?" Neal gasped out, horrified. "You can't be – wait a second!"

But before he could protest any further, his voice was silenced by a wad of damp, foul fabric stuffed into his mouth by one of his attackers. From the awful taste and odor, Neal guessed it was someone's sock. He tried to pull his head away from the hand locked onto his hair, tried to spit out the disgusting gag, but a rough hand slapped over his mouth, yanking his head back, and a menacing voice hissed in his ear.

"Shut your mouth, bitch, or we'll shut it for you."

"Yeah," a second voice sneered, taunting and cruel at Neal's other side, as a hand closed tightly around his throat, momentarily cutting off his air. "Can't scream if you can't _breathe,_ can you?"

It didn't stop Neal from trying to draw as much attention as possible to what was happening, to somehow draw the attention of a guard who wasn't in on this, or at least maybe create enough of a ruckus that the guards who _were_ involved would make good on their threat and call a halt to it. It didn't stop him from struggling, despite the fact that his hands were bound and he had no chance at all of overpowering the five bigger, stronger men who surrounded him.

But struggling didn't do him any good at all.

The five men took their turns, violating him, tearing into his body with vicious fervor – and then three of them took a second turn. By the time they were finished – Neal was _beyond_ pain, beyond even anything resembling coherent thought. The fiery agony of their intrusion had faded into a strange numbness that seemed to have fallen over his mind. He wasn't fighting anymore, wasn't trying to expel the gag, wasn't making a sound. By the time he realized that they were finished and he was alone in his cell again, he had no idea how long they had been gone.

Just before dawn, and the morning shift change, the guards returned to his cell. They weren't at all gentle as they hauled him up, untying his wrists and pulling the gag from his mouth.

"Don't know what you did to piss him off," one of them muttered with a low, dark little chuckle. "But I bet now you'll never do it again."

Neal shook his head a little, confused. "Wh-what?"

"Shut up and listen," the second guard snapped, shaking him slightly as they dragged him to his feet between them, ignoring his wince of pain, and the little cry he tried his best to stifle at the impact to his battered body. "You keep your mouth shut about this. You tell anyone, and they won't believe you, anyway. It's your word against everyone else's – and I'm sure you can figure out how _that'd _play out."

They took him from his cell, and Neal had a vague hope that they were taking him to the infirmary, where at the very least he could get some high dose ibuprofen, and a soft bed in which to allow the oblivion of sleep to give him some respite. But where they should have turned left, they turned right instead, and ended up in the solitary confinement wing, where they tossed him into a tiny, gray cell with only a very small window near the high ceiling for light.

As the hours passed, and Neal's capacity for rational thought came back to him, he figured that the guards on the day shift must not have been in on it; it was the only explanation for why they'd ordered him to silence, because who else could he possibly tell? And in spite of their warnings, they'd thrown him in here for the day in an effort to ensure his silence.

And… there was another reason for the undeserved isolation, Neal realized… later that night, when four more eager inmates were herded into the solitary cell with him.

This time, they didn't have to worry about gagging him; the heavy, soundproof door accomplished that well enough. His already agonized body, barely beginning to heal, was viciously torn open again by their abuse, and they left him bleeding, bruised, shattered and shaking on the floor of the cell when the guards returned to take them back to their own cells.

They'd been gone about an hour when the cell door opened again. Neal flinched away from the sound, struggling to sit up with his back against the wall, unwilling to be any more vulnerable than he had to be. Unfortunately, he was _already_ pretty vulnerable, given the fact that his pants lay discarded halfway across the room, and any attempt at that much movement sent electric sparks of agony shooting up and down his spine. He settled for covering himself with an arm across his groin, looking up and bracing himself for the worst as his single visitor entered and the door closed behind him.

Warden Blake gave Neal a pitying look, shaking his head in false sympathy as he slowly approached. Neal flinched as the warden reached out a hand, but all he did was to stroke gently through Neal's hair, as he crouched down to face him, ducking his head in an attempt to meet Neal's eyes.

Which would have been a lot easier if Neal could have lifted his gaze above floor level at the moment. A sick shiver ran down his spine, his skin prickling with cold and fear as Blake edged closer to him, so close that Neal could feel the slight shifting of air from his movement.

"You see what happens when you step outside of my protection, Neal?" Blake said softly. "See how much worse it could be for you than you've had it these last few weeks? Because of _me_. _I'm_ the one who kept them from hurting you for as long as I did."

Neal stared down at his arm across his lap, willing his bare, exposed body to stop trembling in the chill of the cold stone on which he was seated, and the oppressive presence of the man hovering over him. He swallowed hard, trying to dampen his dry mouth and find the strength to speak, because it seemed that Blake wanted an answer, and self-protective instinct dictated that Neal should give it to him, and quickly.

The only problem was that Neal couldn't even begin to imagine what he should say. Short-circuited by pain and shock and terror, his mind couldn't seem to make the usual connections, to process Blake's body language and facial expressions and gauge what words he needed to use to get himself out of this situation as quickly and painlessly as possible.

_Painless _wasn't exactly on the table anymore… and it was more obvious with every moment that there _was_ no way out of this.

"So tell me, Neal," Blake asked, his voice quiet, his hand unsettlingly gentle as he tilted Neal's head up to try again to meet his eyes. "How do you feel about my proposal _now_?"

The idea of submitting to this man, selling himself for protection and privilege, made Neal sick, and he instinctively jerked his head away from Blake's touch. The man's hand froze for a moment, and then Blake stood up.

"Fine," he said coldly. "Have it your way." He turned and started back toward the door, tossing nastily over his shoulder, "Enjoy your company tonight."

Neal's stomach dropped, and he swallowed back the sick wave of nausea that swept over him at the very suggestion. "_Wait!_" he called out, his voice raspy and weak, the word followed by a whimper as he moved forward too quickly, and a sharp, stabbing pain shot through the lower half of his body.

The warden stopped, half-turning with a look that was skeptical and pitiless.

Neal bit his lower lip, closing his eyes for a moment and willing himself to simply do what he had to do.

_Just give him what he wants… just for now… You can figure out what to do later, once you're clean and dressed and not in pain… but for now, just figure out how to_ not _let him walk out that door…_

"I-I'll do it," he offered in a hoarse whisper, wincing as he climbed up onto his knees, assuming the position he'd refused before. "Please. D-don't go. I'll – I'll do… whatever you want."

With slow, measured, predatory ease, Warden Blake returned to stand in front of him, glaring down at him with cold expectation. Neal stared at the front of the man's slacks, directly in front of his face, for a long moment, before reaching up with trembling, hesitant hands for his zipper. Blake slapped his hand away, before slapping him full across the face, knocking him back off his knees. Neal hit the wall, biting back a cry of agony at the impact.

"_Please_," Blake sneered, giving Neal a derisive up and down look. "Like I'd let you _touch_ me after all of those disease-ridden degenerates just had you. Who knows what filth they've left on you? What _diseases_ you've caught?"

Neal's face burned as much with the shame of the words as from the slap, and he stared down at the floor. That was a new and terrible consequence of the previous two nights that he hadn't focused enough to think of yet. "I-I'm sorry," he whispered. After a moment, he frowned, hesitantly looking up, though not as far as Blake's eyes. "Then… then what…?"

"We'll get you cleaned up first," Blake clarified with a satisfied smile. "Tested. Give you time to recover. And then… we'll see if you're capable of earning the protection you so _clearly_ need." He paused, a disgusted note in his voice as he added, "I told you, you wouldn't survive a night in here without my help."

He left Neal to his own humiliated thoughts, until about thirty minutes later, when a couple of orderlies showed up, at last, to take him to the infirmary.

Neal stepped out of the shower, the steam billowing around him and out into the hall as he wrapped himself in the soft, new bathrobe he'd found with his clothes in the Burkes' guest room. He glanced at the clock in the hall, noting that it was after 2am. The house was quiet, and he made his way silently down the hall to the guest room. He frowned slightly, noticing that the door was slightly open.

_Satchmo?_ he wondered. _But he usually sleeps in Peter and El's room…_

"Satch?" he called softly as he pushed the door open. "You here, boy?"

"Nope." Elizabeth smiled at him from the chair next to his bed. "Hopefully I'll be better company." She paused, her smile fading slightly as she added, "Neal… I think we need to talk."


End file.
